


He Kindly Stopped for Me

by mirandible



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Blood and Violence, Chases, First Meetings, George Being A Badass For A Hot Minute, Injury, Near Death Experiences, Post-Apocalypse, You Know The AU, idiot boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandible/pseuds/mirandible
Summary: Their friendship starts, as most things do, with everything going to shit.[Post-Apocalypse AU belonging to @ATiredShota on Twitter. My take on how Dream and George might have met. You do not need to know the AU to enjoy this!]
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 265





	He Kindly Stopped for Me

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is fantastic and you should check it out if you haven't seen it already  
> Basically the world ended and there's mecha mobs everywhere
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (yes the title is from an Emily Dickinson poem)

Life in the ruined world is unpredictable; George knows this.

Each day brings new dangers, new hardships, monsters in the form of hulking mechas and ruthless bandits lurking around every corner. Letting your guard down is a death wish. Assuming you’re safe is suicide.

George traverses the wasteland with his bow drawn, shoulders hunched and tense. His palms are sweaty despite the slight chill of early spring, but he does not pause to wipe them. He knows better than to take his hands off his weapon.

His calf aches, and he nearly stumbles. The gravel crunches loudly beneath his feet as he rights himself, the sharp sound enough to make his ears ring. The city is quiet today—no signs of activity, human or otherwise. Other men might be relieved by the silence, but relief is dangerous, and it only sets George on edge.

A gust of wind tousles his hair, whispering secrets in a language he cannot understand. He envies its everlasting calm, its gentle caress unfazed by the metal beasts that swarm the earth’s surface.

Shaking off the unbidden feelings of longing, he continues his trek along the outskirts of the city--a once booming metropolis long since taken over by decay. Its only residents now are pioneer plants and autonomous weapons of pure destruction.

_ How lovely. _

His destination becomes visible soon enough, rushing water aglow with reflected sunlight. Decades ago, before the invaders came and society crumbled, this river had been dreadfully polluted; its waters flow clear now, clean enough to drink, and if George knew of its history, he might comment on the irony of such recovery in the apocalypse. But his innocent eyes know not what once was, only what  _ is _ in the present. Poor fool.

He looks into the river and has a sudden change of plans upon seeing his reflection, all dark circles and caked-on dirt and grime. He winces and cups his hands to collect water, when movement catches his eye. He furrows his brow, looking closer at the shimmering water.  _ A fish? _

In the background of his reflection, George spots something: a dark shape, circling high in the sky. He sighs and grabs his bow. So much for a quick errand.

The telltale wingbeats gossip petty secrets in his ears, but George pays them no mind; he already knows what they want to tell him.

_ Where there’s one, there’s three. _

A shadow paints the ground around him and George pivots fast enough to give a normal person whiplash, bow aimed straight at the sun. The arrow begins its arc before George’s eyes have even focused, but he knows it will land.

He doesn’t bother to watch it do so, too busy rolling out of the way of the second phantom’s dive, the sharp  _ whoosh _ of wind throwing dirt at his eyes.  _ Huh, _ George thinks as an impact in the river splashes him.  _ The glasses really came in handy _ .

When the third phantom descends, George dodges it seamlessly, planting his feet and nocking another arrow in an instant. He draws it back and fires without hesitation.

George screams as a phantom’s claws dig deep into his shoulder, tearing apart the flesh like tissue paper. He doesn’t hit his target.

_ Four?! _

Disbelief colors George’s expression as he clutches the fresh wound, blood seeping into his glove. The phantoms begin to circle again, mocking him with their number. Had he missed his first shot? No, it couldn’t be; he heard one fall into the water, so there must be four, but that doesn’t make  _ sense. _ Phantoms attack in groups of three, that’s a  _ fact, _ one of the few certainties in the wasteland, so  _ why— _

_Oh._ _Oh,_ ** _shit._**

Where there‘s one, there’s three.

George snatches up his backpack and makes a beeline for the city, hoping to find shelter in the crumbling ruins. Five phantoms pursue him.

It soon becomes clear that these machines have no intent to leave him be, not when they have him at such a disadvantage. George only has two options: beat them, or die trying.

He takes stock of his ammunition and curses, knowing he had planned to search the riverbed for flint.  _ I’ll have to make them count. _

Shifting his weight to pivot on a dime, George makes an impossibly sharp turn down an alleyway, hearing two of the invaders screech behind him. A stolen glance back reveals four phantoms, and he can only hope the other one is down for good.

At the next intersection he turns left and slams himself flat against the wall, chest heaving, heartbeat pulsing so loud it drowns out the roaring wind as the phantoms pass him by. He only has a few seconds before they’re back on his tail, and he refuses to waste it catching his breath. Raising his weapon yet again, George plunges an arrow into one beast’s eye with the accuracy of a seasoned marksman, sending it careening into the side of an apartment complex so decrepit he wonders how it’s still standing.

He can’t afford to wait and see if the complex lives on, so he thanks it for its services and resumes the chase with renewed desperation, turning on his heel to speed down yet another nameless street. 

The amount of rubble in this area advises caution but George doesn’t have time for that, he must keep going, and he pays the price for his ignorance when a harsh landing shoots fierce lightning up his leg. It reverberates through his shoulder in an agonizing dance but George can only allow himself a single deep inhale before he needs to keep running.

His ankle throbs with every step and he thinks it might be twisted but he doesn’t look back, doesn’t dare slow down, even as his throat burns and his lungs scream for air. He‘s in horrible shape and low on ammunition and only half of the phantoms are down but he grits his teeth and continues on because it’s the only thing he  _ can _ do, because he  _ will not die here. _ He has fought too hard to give in now.

George lunges forward to put just a little more space between him and the invaders and throws himself to the ground. Clenching his jaw to bear the pain in his shoulder, he rolls onto his back with his bow pointed to the sky. In the blink of an eye he aims and fires, and the arrow strikes true, just as it always does.

More than true, even, it pierces straight through the head of one phantom and travels ever further, tearing apart the wing of another. Both beasts, one still thrashing and screeching, pitch into the dirt several meters away. George does not take time to celebrate because there is none to waste, dragging his exhausted body into as fast of a sprint as it can muster while the final phantom swerves around to follow him. He weaves around corners and down narrow alleyways, panting and limping, lungs crying out for air, doing everything he can to shake the phantom but it’s no use, the damn thing keeps  _ following him _ — it won’t let up, he can hear its wings beating behind him and he knows it’s catching up,  _ knows _ he’s coming closer and closer to losing it all, but the only thing he can do now is  _ run— _

**_Clang!_ **

Startled by the noise, George glances back in time to see the phantom crash gracelessly to the ground beneath the weight of a large object. He registers nothing besides the fact that it is vaguely off-white and blob-shaped, only turning to face forward and keep moving.

He runs as far as his legs can bear to take him.

As the last phantom’s mechanisms spark and flicker out a block away, George  _ collapses _ , bow slipping from his hand to clatter against the ground. His fingers ache from keeping their white-knuckle grip for so long, screaming with soreness when he flexes them gingerly. He sucks in a deep breath and slumps to his knees, fighting back tears of pure  _ relief _ .

(But relief is dangerous, and George will curse himself for forgetting that.)

He buries his face in his hands, uncaring of the smeared blood, gulping up oxygen like a man drowned. He gasps and hisses and spits and even lets out a yell because he _survived_ , he took on an _entire_ _flock_ of phantoms, he fought tooth and nail and came out _alive_ , all _on his own_.

For a truly blissful second, George feels safe. It echoes in his head on repeat  _ I am safe, I am safe, I did it, I won, I am safe, this is it, I am safe, safe, safe, safe— _

_ Thunk, thunk, thunk… _

George’s blood runs cold.

The ground beneath him quakes as something menacing walks upon it, and he can’t help but to do the same.

He feels numb.

_ Thunk, thunk, thunk… _

He gathers his bow in shaking hands, the tears he tried so hard to hold back spilling over onto his cheeks. Slowly, George rises to his feet, swaying unsteadily as the wind starts to blow. Its biting chill cradles his dampened skin one last time before it bids him farewell, carrying his dying breaths to the sea.

He welcomes it with open arms, knowing the waves will sing his eulogy.

_ Thunk, thunk, thunk… _

Death is hideous, murky yellow and mechanical, frowning down at him with vacant eyes. Other men would have tried to run, but George knows better.

He can barely manage to stand; there is no chance of escape, let alone battle. Any attempt to flee would only serve to show his back to the enemy, and George refuses to go out that way.

_ Thunk, thunk,  _ **_thunk._ **

So George stares up at death through blurry vision, crystal rivers cutting through the grime upon his cheeks, and fearlessly stands his ground.

And for a brief moment, he wonders…

_ Ssssss… _

...if maybe death would be a little less lonely.

…

_ Yeah, right… _

. . . . .

**_CRASH!_ **

The loud screech of metal against metal rips George back into the present, opening his eyes—when had they closed?—to meet the mecha’s gaze once more, only this time, he is looking downward.

Laying in the dirt at his feet is the head of the creeper, cleanly cut wires exposed and sparking with remnants of imitational life. The light in its empty eyes flickers and dies, and George finds himself incapable of anything more than staring.

The creeper's body crashes unceremoniously to the ground, the horrible shrieks echoing throughout the abandoned city block. But noise is the least of George’s worries right now.

“Hey,” says the tall boy standing atop the metallic corpse. A smiling mask makes him impossible to read, but George gets the feeling he’s smirking, the smug bastard. “Isn’t this the part where you say ‘thank you’?”

George blinks, still reeling from nearly losing his life so many times in one day, soreness beginning to take over his limbs, and spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can catch me on Twitter @mirandible !  
> I definitely have more plans for this AU so keep an eye out if you liked it!  
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated!
> 
> And once again let me thank @ATiredShota on Twitter for giving us this spectacular AU


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